A Sharp Mind is Its Own Archenemy
by withaflourish
Summary: Sherlock is brilliant. But when a mind as sharp as his has nothing to dull its edge on, it begins to turn on itself. A look inside the mind of Sherlock Holmes: because wherever there is stunning brilliance, there is also the darkest, deepest shadow.


A/N: Originally posted to my AO3 account. Thanks to my lovely beta Shanzay and to Charlotte for leading me to Shanzay and encouraging me to continue with this story.  
>Definitions of non-English words are in the endnotes.<br>Please note that this story contains references to hallucinations and mental health issues, which may be triggering to some people.

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><p>"Genius is a curse. That's how I look at it. Some think that the brilliant comprehend the universe in a way the rest of us can't. They see the world how it truly is—and that reality is so horrible the lose their minds. Clarity leads to insanity."<p>

- Harlan Coben, _Caught_

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><p>Sherlock's mind was his pride and joy. He relished in its sharpness, the way words would pop into his mind like polished daggers, ready to cut his opponents and make them bleed. He took pride in its eye for detail, how pieces of evidence would start to form connections and blossom into an elegant web – obvious only to him, whispering its secrets and its stories in his ear. He loved how everything was so <strong>vivid<strong>, how colours, scents and textures could mix and meld and yet remain firmly distinct, each jostling to be the subject of his attention. The drama, the flair of life, evident only to his keen mind (how in the world did people live without archenemies?) put a bounce in his stride and a manic glint in his eye. When focused, his mind was the most dangerous tool in the world. When focused, his mind was a finely-tuned instrument without rival. When focused, Sherlock's mind was the best part of himself.

Sherlock's mind was his worst enemy. The shattered trains of thought (because only an idiot would follow a single train of thought at a time) swerved and collided, sparking and scraping against the inside of his skull. The smallest detail blazed like a supernova, and even when he closed his eyes, they continued to burn through his eyelids in rapid succession. They screamed to be heard (followed by the whispers, always the whispers), to be seen, to be observed, deduced and given a purpose.

He had been an insomniac for as long as he could remember. It wasn't that he couldn't sleep; rather, he forced himself to stay awake for as long as physically possible. It wasn't the sleep itself that shook him, for he had never been plagued by either nightmares or dreams. But it was the in-between times that left him raw and bare and struggling for purchase: those hazy moments between sleep and wakefulness, when his filters were down and the threads of thousands of cases, real and imagined, twisted and tangled into a writhing knot that snaked low in his gut_._

_The __pink __(numbers, __always __numbers) __it__'__s __the __phone __(with __the __pips __and __the __semtex) __which __was __stolen __(acrobats __with __swords __and __paint) __swimming __in __a __pool __(but __the __railroad, __we __can__'__t __forget __the __railroad) __and __John __was __kidnapped __(and __John __was __abducted) __and __John __was __in __danger __(and __John __killed __the __danger) __but __John __was __in __danger __of __not __being __in __danger __(of __losing __John) __and __I __helped __that, __didn__'__t __I? __But __Carl __Powers __was __a __skeleton __going __around __the __garden __(burning __in __the __sun) __because __hearts __are __burning __and __lives __are __at __stake __and __that __matters __but __it __doesn__'__t __because __I __can__'__t __save __them._

He couldn't save them.

Lives fell through his fingers like sand, like the dry dusty sand that trickled through an hourglass, marking the time (always the time). And time was his enemy, because he had too much of it, because he was Sherlock Holmes _and __no __one __could __keep __up __with __his __massive __intellect._ And so he waited for them to catch up. He waited and waited and slowly suffocated, smothered in _toska_, entrenched in _litost,_while others sneered and brushed it off as mere boredom.

Boredom. That's what they called it. It was an idiotic word for idiotic minds. They could not, would not comprehend the true nature of his mind. _They__'__d __go __insane. __Then __again, __wasn__'__t __he?_ Boredom did not describe the way spots would eat away at his vision until it was safer to stay on the couch than to try and walk anywhere. Boredom did not describe the way his throat would constrict until every breath sent a shudder through his entire body and he wondered if someone could drown in air (a preposterous and completely unscientific thought). Boredom did not describe the way shapes would appear at the edge of his vision, increasing in detail and size until they became full-fledged figures, grinning caricatures of his latest case, smirking memories and sneering fictions, faces to the omnipresent _and __sometimes, __he __believed, __omnipotent_ whispers:

_Why __was __I __killed __Sherlock? __What __did __Moriarty __want __with __me? __Why __weren__'__t __you __fast __enough, __strong __enough, __smart __enough? __Who __are __you __but __a __lost __boy, __making __up __a __fancy __title __to __hide __the __fact __that __you __will __be __alone __forever?_

He would pull out the gun, intent to shoot them all straight between their imaginary eyes, but halted each time. Instead, he shot around them, tracing petty figures and faces into the wall in the hopes that the other figures (with faces, with voices, with backgrounds he refused to deduce, because **that ****made ****them ****real**) would flinch and disappear. But the only thing that was flinching was John _and __this __was __wrong, __the __voices __said, __this __is __not __how __you __live __with __someone __with __PTSD_, _but __Sherlock __wasn__'__t __supposed __to __listen __to __the __voices __and __John __didn__'__t __know __that __his __flatmate __was __insane __and __if __John __knew, __John __would __leave_. John would leave Sherlock alone with all the voices.

And so the man (the boy) with the sharp mind that could shred his opponents' arguments into shreds (don't run with scissors, don't run with knives, because you can cut yourself, because the blade runs both ways) slowly drowned, lungs filled with voices, secrets and bitter, lonely guilt.

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><p>Notes:<p>

Toska: Russian word with no simple English translation. Vladmir Nabokov, a Russian writer, once said: "No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom."

Litost: Czech word also with no simple English translation. The closest definition is a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery


End file.
